Stages of Grief
by Rekka Alexiel
Summary: The truth is often too much to bear. When Peter learns the truth about his origins, can he forgive Walter and be able to return to his comfortable life? Slight P/O


_Fringe: Stages of Grief_

**Part 1: Deception**

It had been a long day, hours of riding in a plane across country from a case in Seattle with Walter babbling on about how horrible the movie selection in economy class was, with its 'non-stimulating garbage for children' and 'down-right rude' cabin attendants when he asked for peanuts and received pretzels instead. _He must have missed that switch when he was locked away in the loony-bin_, Peter thought at the time. If only he could have had more than that little bottle of vodka and preferably an iPod that worked longer than an hour, maybe he could have tuned everything out long enough to catch up on some much needed shut-eye.

Stepping into the dark and empty house, Peter flipped on the switch and the lights brightly lit the living room. He set down a heavy, black suitcase next to the door and placed the house and car keys down on a small wooden table beside the door, then turned to look back at the car in the driveway. Walter was still sitting in the passenger's seat, fast asleep. _He was just awake a second ago._

With a sigh, Peter walked back to the car and opened the door next to his father. Walter looked so old in the dim light of the street lights lining their neighborhood, the lines roughly etched in his skin, carving a somehow sorrowful expression. As Peter reached in to touch Walter's shoulder, he stopped halfway when Walter spoke in his sleep.

"I didn't want to, Belly. I didn't want to hurt to him—I love him too much."

_He's just having a weird dream_, Peter thought to himself, tapping Walter on the shoulder.

"Walter, wake up. We're home."

Jumping awake with a start, Walter looked up at Peter through glossy eyes. "Oh, Peter. I must have fallen asleep."

"That would be an accurate assumption," Peter said, holding out a hand to help Walter out of the car. "C'mon. I'll take your suitcase."

"Why, thank you, son," Walter said as he handed his suitcase over to Peter. Getting out of the car himself and following Peter toward the house, he added, "Since when did you become such a gentleman? No doubt the ladies love that! Maybe Agent Dunham would even let you carry her gun one day."

Peter chuckled at the ridiculous image of walking up to Olivia, saying, 'Good day, madam, shall I take your gun for you?'

"Somehow Walter, I doubt she'd let anyone touch her gun," Peter said as he used the keys to unlock the front door of the house. He opened the door wide to allow Walter through first.

"Well, maybe if you ask nicely," Walter added with a flash of hidden meaning in his eyes.

No additional comment was needed, but Peter couldn't help but laugh as he closed and locked the door. "Here's your suitcase, Walter," Peter said, putting the luggage down in the entrance of Walter's 'room'. "You need anything else tonight?"

"No, thank you, son. I think I may brew up some coffee before getting some shuteye. I suddenly have a craving for that hazelnut kind. Somehow it reminds me of spring and new beginnings. It's rather refreshing."

Puzzled, Peter said, "You're going to drink coffee before bed? Walter, you'll be up all night if you do that."

"Nonsense. The amount of caffeine in coffee is hardly comparable to an LSD buzz, which I would much rather have. You simply can't get LSD in flavors. Then again, maybe I ought to try that in the morning, hazelnut flavored LSD! Now that would be something…"

"Great, sounds like fun, Walter," Peter said, picking up his own suitcase and heading upstairs. "Just don't wake me up in the morning, okay?"

"Of course. I will be as quiet as a lab rat!"

"Goodnight, Walter."

"Goodnight, son," Walter smiled as he watched Peter walk up the stairs and out of sight. "Now for some LSD…"

******

It was the call that came at 2:36am that planted the final seeds of uncertainty in his mind. The infectious and unnecessary desire to know more always got the better of him, although later he wished he could have just ignored it.

"Yeah?" Peter said, rubbing his eyes, half expecting to hear Olivia's voice on the other line. Instead he heard nothing but static. "Hello?"

"Your father is lying to you."

It wasn't Olivia, that much he knew. Through the static of the connection, the voice came through raspy and ever so insistent.

Irritated that someone would prank call at this hour and wake him up when he hardly had time enough to fall asleep in the first place, Peter angrily said, "Who is this?"

"Someone who knows the truth," the voice said.

"Well, I'm not interested your idea of truth, whoever you are. Don't call here again."

"Even if it's _your_ truth?"

This was not any ordinary prank call. For a moment, he wished they had installed caller ID like the phone company had wanted, for an additional fee, of course. "Who are you?" Peter said again.

"Go to Mt. Auburn Cemetery. The truth has been waiting for you there." And then whoever was on the line hung up.

******

The next day Peter woke up early. He never actually fell back to sleep after that strange phone call, especially with "Mt. Auburn Cemetery" running through his head.

At 5:30 he gave up trying to sleep and walked downstairs to hunt for a map or something to find the cemetery. As he walked past the kitchen, he noticed several beakers and other mixing utensils out on the counter.

"Wonderful," Peter said, shaking his head. "I guess he couldn't stop the craving for sweet flavored psychotics."

From the kitchen he peeked into Walter's room to make sure he hadn't overdosed in the middle of the night. A lamp was left on next to where Walter was lying on the edge of his bed with an arm and leg hanging out from under the covers. Peter stepped close, picking up an extra blanket from a chair and draped it gently across Walter's fragile frame. Grinning at the awkward feeling of tucking his own father in, Peter reached over to the lamp and turned it off.

Next he walked over to the large bookshelf in the other room and quietly rummaged through some old books and atlases that Walter brought over from the lab one day. Taking out and brushing the dust from one of the atlases, he opened it to find the cemetery. He seemed to recall something about it, but it was too far back in his mind. The only thing he could think of was his mother. He could have sworn that she had something to do with it. Maybe that's where she was buried; he never really knew.

Turning the atlas to the area of Cambridge, he scanned the map for cemeteries. New Calvary Cemetery, St. Michael Cemetery, Hollywood Cemetery… There it was, Mt. Auburn Cemetery. It was a large, secluded cemetery on the west side of Cambridge. It didn't seem too far from their house.

By 6:00 he was up and dressed, ready to find out what 'truth' was waiting for him at a cemetery. He was very skeptical that he'd find anything there at all, but still there was that lingering feeling of dread that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. If there _was_ some sort of truth waiting for him there, would he like it?

Down in the kitchen, he reached for the phone on the wall, dialing Astrid's number.

"Morning, Astrid. It's Peter. // Sorry to call you so early in the morning, but I was wondering if you could come down here and watch Walter? Something came up and I have to run out. // It shouldn't be longer than an hour. // Great, thanks a lot. He's still sleeping right now, so if you're lucky he'll stay that way while I'm gone. // Yes, I know. I owe you one."

Ten minutes later, Astrid arrived and Peter was out the door to find the truth.

**Part 2: Denial**

Finding the cemetery wasn't the problem. It was finding whatever he was meant to find inside it that proved to be a little more tricky.

Founded in 1831, this was one of the first cemeteries to be designed with nature in mind, utilizing the natural beauty of the tranquil land to give visitors a sense of peace. Many fountains, monuments and chapels were also constructed throughout to add another accent of man-made beauty. Locating a single unknown something in the middle of the bare, winter trees scattered artistically throughout the cemetery was beyond frustrating and much more time consuming than he thought.

After walking down path after path, glancing at hundreds of graves, Peter glanced at his watch. Almost 9:00. _I can't make Astrid wait much longer_, he thought. He'd take one last look up the next hill and then he'd call it quits. It was a stupid idea to believe a prank caller anyway.

Tightly pulling the collar of his black pea coat closed as the bitter wind blew through the bare trees, he continued walking down a path named Oak Avenue. The graves on this hill seemed newer compared to all those from the 1800s that he walked past, and as he walked up the hill encompassed by old oak trees, he noticed a fence further ahead that blocked the steep drop at the end. It was near the edge of the hill that something caught his eye. At first he thought he merely read it wrong or maybe he was too far away to clearly read the name engraved on the tombstone, but the closer he came, the more he could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears.

_The epitaph read '__**Peter Bishop, 1978-1985'**__. _

He chuckled to himself in disbelief. This must be someone's sick attempt at a joke. Someone he owed money? Someone from the mafia who wanted to scare him? As far as he knew he didn't die in 1985. He was living proof of that.

"This is crazy!" he said, quickly turning around and walking away, not once taking a look back. He wanted to ignore the feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that he _knew_ and he _had known_ for a long time that something just wasn't right, something just didn't fit. He shook his head angrily. "It's not me!"

**Part 3: Anger**

It was 9:15 when Peter walked in the front door, placing his keys on the table as usual before stepping into the family room where Walter and Astrid were playing Monopoly.

"But Walter," Astrid said, not noticing Peter enter the room, "you can't collect $200 if you don't pass GO first."

"I got out of jail with no money to my name. The government owes me at least that much for the time I suffered in that place. Besides, the orange money reminds me of those orange circus peanuts Peter hated as a boy. I think they are heavenly. And curiously taste of banana."

"Hey, sorry I'm late," Peter said, quietly stepping into the room.

Turning around in the sofa to face Peter, Walter said, "Ah, Peter! Where were you off to so early this morning? It must have been an important errand for you to be up and at'em, before 6:00 even!" He turned to Astrid and spoke as though Peter were no longer in the room, "He hated getting up early as a little boy. He used to hide under the covers and pretend that he wasn't there. He used to think that if he didn't move long enough, just maybe I wouldn't make him get up…"

"Walter, I need to talk to you," Peter said, trying to get his father's attention.

"Ah! I know!" Walter said, suddenly excited as he looked back to Peter. "It was Agent Dunham, wasn't it? You went to see her! How lovely! And how very _sneaky_ of you, Peter! You could have just told me that you were going to make a house call—"

"—Walter, would you please stop with your fantasies for a second?" Peter said, obviously agitated over something. "Listen, I got a phone call early this morning. They wouldn't say who they were, but they said to go to Mt. Auburn Ceme—."

The moment the name escaped Peter's lips, Walter dropped the orange money in his hands as he jumped to his feet, his face white as death. And that was almost all Peter needed to know…that this so-called 'truth' indeed held some weight.

"You know that place, don't you, Walter?" Peter asked, his own face quickly losing its color, a cold sweat on his brow.

"N-no," Walter said. "Of course not. Why would I—"

"Because I found a grave there, Walter, with my name on it!"

At the sound of this news, Astrid looked up from counting the play money in shock.

"You know something about that, don't you?" Peter said, stepping near his father.

Walter simply stood and shook his head. He couldn't say anything.

It must be true. He wouldn't have reacted so abruptly at the mere sound of the place. Plus, if it was false, he would have given a logical explanation for it. This time, he had nothing.

Peter took a deep breath, his head swimming at the implications. If it was indeed his grave, then how could he be standing here now? It must be an empty grave, there was no other logical explanation. It didn't make sense.

And then it hit him: _The parallel universe. There is two of everything._

"Walter, tell me right now, the truth. Whose grave was that?" But Walter turned his back toward Peter and fiddled with the buttons on his shirt, his hands shaking wildly. Peter sighed, anger flaring in his eyes as he grabbed Walter's shoulders and made him turn around. "Walter, look at me! Am I your son?"

Walter tried to avoid direct eye contact but it was impossible with Peter so close, demanding answers. "Peter, please…" Tears welled up in his eyes.

Peter shook his head. "I'm not, am I? I'm from _Over There_."

"I-I wanted to protect you, Peter. I wanted to give you a good life, see you grow up and have a family of your own one day… I just…"

"Have been lying to me my entire life," Peter said, disgusted.

As though burnt by the flames in Peter's eyes, Walter jerked out of his grasp. "I didn't mean to!"

"What do you mean, you didn't 'mean to'? You could have told me at any time and you chose not to! Why? Are you hiding something else?"

"No, Peter, no…" was all Walter could say.

"How did I even get here? The doorway, right? You were working with William Bell to find a way to cross universes and…" Peter thought for a moment. How did his father create such technology? He must have had great motivation to accomplish such a thing in such little time—the death of his only son, perhaps? Peter could feel the stinging in his eyes as he blinked the moisture away. "It was you... Your son died when he was seven, so you created the door to the other world and _took_ me from my bed, for godsake! You _kidnapped_ me!"

"Peter, I—"

"I remember! When I was seven, I used to have nightmares every night, some man walking into my room and grabbing me… It all makes sense. That's why you helped me forget the dreams. You wanted me to forget everything I had come to know..."

Walter only shook his head in utter grief.

"You wanted to mold me into your dead son, just walk right into his shoes. You even hypnotized me... And those car batteries, was that—"

"—Peter," came a soft voice that silenced everyone in the room.

Through the heated argument, Peter and Walter never realized that Olivia was now standing there, Astrid on the other side of the room with her phone still in hand.

"Peter, please stop," Olivia said, cautiously stepping toward the father and son in the center of the room, her hands outstretched as though she were approaching someone with a loaded gun that could go off at any moment. "Let him explain."

Their eyes met, Olivia's with her bright green eyes and Peter's deeply haunted eyes that blocked any reflection of the room's light. He was disillusioned, his life unraveling before him, spiraling out of control with no hope of ever coming back. And it was in her eyes that he saw the truth reflected back at him.

_She knew._

Unable to simply blink the glossy glaze from his eyes any longer, a single tear streaked down his face. _Not her, too, anything but that, please_, he heard his inner voice saying. He pointed a finger at her accusingly. "You knew the truth and _you didn't tell me!_" he said harshly through clenched teeth.

"It wasn't for me to tell," Olivia said, shaking her head as she glanced at Walter. It was a horrible excuse, she knew.

But Peter's darkened eyes were still on Olivia. "I trusted you! I thought—" He choked on his words and shook his head, a hand quickly wiping the tears from his face. Halfway joking, he said, "I bet Astrid over there even knew before me." When she, too, responded with frightened silence, Peter laughed. "Amazing! Simply amazing! It just keeps getting better. He kidnaps me from a parallel universe, you all know about it and help him cover it up—You of all people, 'Liv…"

Peter, his head low, started his way out of the room. Where he was going, he didn't know, but it didn't matter. He didn't belong there. No matter where he'd go or end up, he would never belong. Maybe that's why he could never settle down and stay in one place for too long. Not only because of the people hunting him down but because deep down he knew that he could never be part of this world. This world, this life, was over and finished for him.

_It's all Walter's fault!_

"Peter, he loves you," Olivia said, trying to reason with him, if such a thing could be possible.

Peter's eyes quietly echoed the disappointment and betrayal he felt inside. "You are fully responsible!" Peter said, the aggressive fire of anger drying up his moistened eyes as he looked again at Walter. "You did this to me!" Frustration bursting forth, he smacked a porcelain vase with his fist, causing it to fall to the floor in a million sharp pieces, just like his shattered heart. He never felt the warm streak of blood trickling down the side of his hand. "And what about this war? Did all of this start because you took me, upset the balance?"

Walter could endure no more. He slumped to the floor in a ball of raw memories and emotions that he could not comprehend at the rate in which they flashed through his mind. He had to shut down, distance himself, or else he might explode from the pressure. As Walter rocked himself back and forth, Astrid knelt down beside him, a gentle hand stroking his back like a mother would her child.

"Unbelievable," Peter said, shaking his head. His heart was pounding so fast, his breath coming in quick pants as though he had been running. Bending down near Walter, Peter roughly grabbed his shirt to make him look him in the eye. "If this world is destroyed, you only have yourself to blame."

Peter heard how harsh the words sounded. He didn't want to say it, he didn't want to feel this way, but there was no holding it back. He wanted to turn around and pick his father up from off the ground, but… He couldn't do it. With one last glance at Walter on the floor, he turned and walked out of the room.

"Peter, wait please. Where are you going?" Olivia said, a deep crease of concern on her forehead.

He couldn't turn around to face her because he knew that if he did, he would never leave. If he saw those worried eyes peering through to his soul, he might have seen the tears in her eyes. Maybe he would have raised a hand to her soft face to steal them away. But he couldn't ignore the poisonous thorn of their betrayal gouging a hole in his vulnerable heart. He had to leave.

And without a single glance back, he opened the front door and stepped out into the chill winter morning. The door closed loudly behind him and _he was gone_.

**Part 4: Bargaining**

It was still well before noon when he emptied multiple glasses of scotch, whisky, beer…anything he could get his hands on, which meant just about anything the bartender placed in front of him. He didn't care what it was. If he were given an entire bowl of nuts, he probably would have drunk them down, too.

Even through all the drinks, he still couldn't get the image of his—no, it wasn't his!—grave out of his head, couldn't understand how, after all these years, Walter still withheld such devastating information. And Olivia knew, too! Knowing that was much more of a shock for many reasons, first and foremost because she was a friend and maybe lastly because of her profession. She should have been obligated to report a known kidnapping, even if it happened twenty-five years ago. But she kept Walter's secret, let Peter keep living a lie. That's all his life was, nothing more than a lie. So why not drink it away?

Stretching out his arms across the empty bar counter, Peter rested his chin on the top of the counter, turning his half glass of Jack Daniel's with the tips of his fingers as he watched the light dance on the surface of the glass. If only he didn't have to know, maybe he could have been happy. Maybe he could have kept a relationship with his father, Olivia, everyone… If only he could have his life back…

He sat up and drank the remains of the glass in one gulp, grimacing from the warm sting it had going down.

"Rough night?" It was the bartender again. She was a beautiful young woman, probably around 26, 27. Her long, brown hair was braided in the back, which she often liked to play with, whipping it back and forth with her hand. "Starting early and there's no stop in sight."

"Leave me alone," Peter said. He put his head down a moment only to change his mind as he looked back up. "And hit me again."

"Listen, if you want someone to talk to," she said, filling his glass, "bartenders like me are usually good listeners."

"Who said I wanted to talk?"

The bartender simply smiled. "Those eyes did, hun."

Peter shook his head, smiling quietly. What hurt could it do to talk a little? It was just the alcohol speaking anyway. "I just found out something that changes everything in my life. My family, friends, me…"

The bartender smiled, curious. "Just by learning one thing?"

Peter nodded, still trying to come to terms with the fact. It all seemed so unreal. "Apparently, I was kidnapped when I was seven. Oh, and guess what? It was my own father who did it."

"And you never knew?"

"No, never knew," he said, still shaking his head as he took another swig of whiskey.

"So then, you find out this deep, dark secret and you come here to make everything better. Well, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this but, drowning yourself in alcohol isn't going to solve anything. The only thing that will do, my dear, is give you one hell of a headache to deal with in the morning."

"Maybe that's the point… Maybe that way I might feel something," Peter said as though trying to convince himself of something. "I don't feel anything any more."

"Well, duh. Whiskey!"

"No, I mean, I don't _feel_ anything," he said, holding up his left hand that was wrapped in some sort of make-shift bandage. Whatever was underneath must have been pretty bad because the cloth was stained red on one entire side.

"Are you all right? What did you do?"

"Smashed a vase. It was one of my mother's favorites, though I guess she was never really my mother, either," he said, his eyes falling to his wounded hand. He poked at the stained bandage as though trying to find the right spot, trying to feel the pain. But he couldn't. He was numb inside and out, and he knew it wasn't because of the booze.

The bartender, both intrigued and worried, planted her elbow firmly on the counter to rest her head in her hand thoughtfully. "You know, sometimes people do horrible things for a very good reason. Maybe you will never be able to understand because it happened directly to you, but if you can try to understand the 'why', maybe it can give you some peace." With another smile, she picked up Peter's empty glass before he could ask to refill it again and replaced it with a clean glass of water.

_Understand the 'why'_, Peter thought. Was there a reason good enough that would free him from feeling this betrayed, this changed? Who knows what sort of person he would have become had he been able to stay in his world with his real family. Maybe he could have had a real relationship with both of his parents, maybe he didn't have to get involved in a shady, nomadic life, maybe…maybe… The maybe's would never stop coming, he knew, but he couldn't stop the waves coming one by one to wash over and drown him in hopeless despair.

It amazed him, that after everything he'd gone through in his life, that something like this would make him fall to his knees, defeated. It was sad, actually. Since when had he become this weak? Perhaps the moment he allowed people back into his well guarded heart. That was his mistake and no one else's.

"You're very good at therapy," Peter said to the bartender. "What's your name?"

Playfully brushing the tip of her braid against the side of her face, she answered, "Name's Terra, and if my friends could hear you say that, they would so totally laugh in your face. I'm not usually one with such brilliant advice."

Peter attempted a smile but only managed a small whimper.

At that moment, a man who had been sitting at a small, round table behind him stood up and approached Peter.

"Excuse me," the man said. "I'm sorry for listening in, but that's really something. Your own father kidnapping you and not having the guts to say anything until you find out for yourself. What a coward."

Rather disinterested, Peter turned to look at the man. He wore a fancy black suit with red tie, nothing too out of the ordinary given the fact that it was noon on a work day. It was the man's raspy voice that caught Peter's attention even through the fog of alcohol in his head.

"You're the one who called me, aren't you?" Peter said, quickly losing his coveted emotional strength. "Why did you make me go there? I didn't have to know…" He felt himself losing the will to fight back and be angry at the world for his troubles. "I'd do anything to not feel like this…"

The bartender smiled, "Maybe you want to pack it in early? I can arrange to get you a ride some place."

Sitting in an empty seat next to Peter, the man leaned in close and whispered, "I've seen the coming of this war and I have been unable to see a pleasant outcome for either side. Until now. That's why I've come, to stop the war!"

Lacking the energy to think critically, Peter groggily accepted everything out of the man's mouth as truth. "And you can do that. Stop the war."

The man grinned darkly like a used car salesman who was about to make a sale. "You see, the two universes oppose each other because they are out of balance; however, if they were to be properly balanced, put back in order, neither one needs to be destroyed. They can both exist with no harm to the other."

"Sounds good in theory, but do you know how many things you'd have to 'put in order' to balance things out? I'm afraid that's more than one person can do."

"And that's where you are wrong," said the man, his black eyes cutting through the fog in Peter's head, instantly sobering him up in a single glance. "I am not the one who can save our two worlds. You are, Peter Bishop. You are the missing piece. If you go back, leave this universe, everything will be in perfect, harmonious balance and no war will ever occur."

_If you go back…leave this universe…_ The words shocked and cut him through the center. Even if Peter didn't come from this world, he still lived here for more than half of his life. How could he be expected to give everything up…

"I know you love this world, and the people in it," the man tried to appeal to Peter's weakened emotional state as a form of manipulation. "You have a family, people who care about you. They will all die, casualties in the coming war. If you go back, they can keep their lives. And you can have your life back, your _true_ life you were meant to live."

He would have to leave this place for the Other Side, leave everything behind for a whole new world he knew nothing about, had no attachments to. Perhaps he still had blood relatives waiting, dreaming, praying for his return, but it would mean nothing to him. He had already lost the only family he had ever known. There was no room for another.

"You think it over," the man said, passing Peter a napkin with something written in black ink on it. "Call me when you're ready." As the man stood up to leave, Peter noticed something black hidden beneath his suit jacket. Quickly pulling his jacket closed, the man buttoned it properly before disappearing out of the bar.

The bartender, still playing with her hair, looked at Peter. "You don't actually believe that story, do you?"

"I don't know what to believe anymore." Blankly getting to his feet, he added, "Charge my bill to the FBI, honey. Tell them they owed me."

"And what's your name again, dear?"

"As far as I know? My name's Peter Bishop."

**Part 5: Depression**

He was walking down a road to nowhere, not paying attention to signs or lights for direction. He simply walked, every thought and sight ahead of him melded into a mash of unfeeling nothingness, a blur of colors that had no order, no meaning. What was it all for? Why did this knowledge have to tear his heart and soul in two? What would be left when it was through? In the end would there be anything left or would he simply fade to black like the world spiraling out of control before him?

He was so close to finding true happiness. He was right there at the precipice, just before taking that step into the glorious unknown. He had a future there within it, a future where the sun glistened off the ocean's surface like dazzling daytime stars. There was hope in that future, too, alive and kicking. His father was standing there, smiling at him as though it were his wedding day. There was such pride in his eyes. Only Peter knew he would never see that day, he would never find his way back to that perfect beach. The love inside him was dead, the sun ripped from his sky, the waves of the ocean were aflame. Everything was burning, and soon he, too, would be nothing but ash.

What was the point of continuing to live this lie? He knew it couldn't continue any longer, but he didn't have the courage—or the cowardice—to end it here and now.

Without much realization, he came to a small park somewhere on Harvard's campus and sat on a cold, stone bench alone and laughed at himself, at the situation, the wicked deceit he felt rotting away his everything. It made him ill, churning over and over in his gut. What was worse of all, there was nothing he could do to change a single thing. He couldn't change reality, he couldn't stop the feelings of betrayal, he couldn't deny the fact that it hurt so much because he opened his heart—for the first time since he could remember—and let himself love and be loved, unconditionally. Maybe that was his mistake. If he had only kept his distance, or stayed away altogether, maybe he wouldn't be dying inside now.

There was nothing left for him to do. The claws of despair slashed mercilessly at his heart. Bending over his knees as he sat on the bench, he buried his head in his hands and wept.

**Part 6: Acceptance**

He didn't know where he was going. He could hardly feel the ground move underneath his feet, all sounds and smells of the world seemed dull and fake. His mind was floating through the empty spaces that was his past, and the alcohol in his blood wasn't helping either. Did any of it have meaning, his life? Was it all a big waste of time? The pain, the sorrow, the disappointment. All of it. It didn't mean anything.

Although the sky was a rare shade of blue with no cloud in sight, Peter felt as though the sun was hidden behind layers of deceitful clouds, intentionally stealing the light away from his eyes, leaving him cold and abandoned. He could almost feel raindrops fall on his skin as he walked aimlessly on, through the seemingly vacant streets of Cambridge.

Before he knew it, he was at the entrance to a church, St. Anthony's. He never had many fond memories of actually going to church, but this was the one place he remembered going as a family when he was young. And he remembered after mass, Walter would often take him to the Smith Playground baseball field on campus, four or five blocks down the road, to play. It felt so long ago…almost like a dream…

Halfway feeling like an innocent bystander as his own life unfolded before him, Peter slowly climbed the stairs of the church and entered the old brick building. The next thing he knew, he was sitting in one of the pews of the empty church. He had never been a very religious person. There was a day when both of his parents were, however. It felt like their spiritual life died a little more with every passing year, and when Walter went away, that was the last straw for his mother. They never once stepped foot into another church again.

But here he was, after all these years, sitting in the very same church he had come as a boy. Nothing seemed to have changed and yet the building felt different, somehow darkly hallow, the walls whispering words of wonder and fear he couldn't hear. Then again, as he sat in silence he began to understand that the world around him hadn't changed, rather it was he who had changed.

It was amazing how much a small piece of information could change things, Peter thought. But really, did it have to change? Did he have to reject the people he had grown close to because of their past mistakes? Was there no room for forgiveness?

That's when the stone walls of the church seemed to echo his mother's words, "Είναι ένα καλύτερο άνθρωπο από τον πατέρα σου." Although he thought the words could mean "be a better man than your father," Peter was beginning to see past the initial vapor, peering through the mist to their true meaning.

His mother had to have known the truth as well. She had just lost a son and was grieving. Then Walter came to her and said that they could get Peter back, he could be saved. She tried to talk sense into him, but to no avail. Walter did the unspeakable and brought the alter-Peter into this world, claiming him as his own. Maybe Walter was okay with that and could go on like nothing happened, but not his mother. That is why she was always distant, emotionally detached from Peter: Because every waking day she was reminded of her loss, Walter's lie, and the poor, innocent boy caught in the middle.

That is why she said those words, because someday she knew that Peter would learn the truth and would have to make a very difficult decision. Should he leave the world he had come to know all his life, or should he turn to the relationships that he had made to save him?

_Keep your people close. Take care of the people you care about._

That was his second interpretation of his mother's words, but the more he thought, he began to imagine yet another:

_Protect those you love. No matter what may come between you._

If what the man in the suit said was true, that neither world needed to annihilate the other _only_ _if balance could be achieved_…

Peter's heart sank at the realization of one last possibility, that death was inevitable. He had but one choice.

He removed his cell phone and the napkin from his jacket pocket as he stood and walked out of the church, dialing as he went. As he exited the church and walked into the bright light of day, he heard someone answer on the other end of the line.

"This is Peter Bishop," he said. "I don't know what you expected me to do for you, but I can't go with you. My life is here." Without waiting for a response, Peter hung up and walked to the nearest bus stop.

**Part 7: Forgiveness**

The man in the suit was waiting. After receiving Peter's call and subsequent refusal to do his rightful duty, he came to the Bishop residence for one last plea for help. And if that again failed, perhaps he needed to raise the stakes higher. Standing behind a large oak tree across the street from their house, he waited. It was only half-past noon. Peter would return soon.

******

Only a few hours passed since Peter was drinking his mind away in the bar, but he still felt very lucid, very much in control of his faculties if not his emotions. The walk to and from the bus stop seemed to help clear his confusion and further solidify his decision. What would he say to Walter? What would he say to Olivia, Astrid? He had said some horrible things to them, the most important people in his life… If he didn't have them, he would have nothing.

He felt his heart race the moment his house came into view, his throat very dry. As he walked up the driveway toward the house, Walter stepped out onto the porch, followed by Olivia, Astrid remained inside but still visible from the door. It was clear they were all waiting for his return.

"Peter," Walter said, his eyes red.

Peter stopped moving closer in a moment's hesitation, but then scowling, opened his mouth to speak, "Walter, I—" He paused, suddenly unable to say anything. He tried to swallow but his throat was very parched. Clearing his throat, he tried again, "Walter, what I said—"

"It's all my doing," Walter said, seemingly more able to speak than Peter was. "Everything. I created the way to the other world, I went there and stole you, Peter, I started this war… It was all me."

Peter took the last couple steps to stand directly in front of his father but still far enough away to prevent Walter from reaching out to him. "Walter, listen. I cannot accept what you did to me and I probably won't be able to forgive you for that, ever."

Quivering like a very old man, Walter flinched at Peter's words, but continued to listen.

"But I can't deny everything you've done for me. I understand what you did, you did out of love—and that's all that matters, Walter," Peter said, his voice cracking, whether it be from parchedness or emotion. He finally reached out to his father and brought him into a close embrace, patting the back of his head tenderly. "You have always tried to do the best for me. I can't turn my back on you now."

Walter began to sob into Peter's shoulder. "Oh, Peter! I thought I had finally lost you forever. I didn't know what I would have done…"

"It's alright now, Walter. I'm not going anywhere," Peter said, looking up to Olivia who said nothing but quietly smiled at him. He could see the relief pour out from her eyes and he smiled back.

As though shattering the warm and fuzzy moment, a scruffy voice came from behind. "Ah, Dr. Walter Bishop. I've always wanted to meet you. This is certainly an unparalleled delight."

Peter whirled around at the sound of the voice. Olivia also took a cautious step forward.

"I'm afraid your son, sir," he said, addressing Walter directly, "does not fully understand the consequences of his decision. If he stays here, two separate worlds will tear each other apart, countless people will suffer and die. You and I included, most likely." Then he turned his black eyes upon Peter. "Can you really live with that on your conscience? The savior will become the destroyer."

"Look, whoever said that going back would solve anything? Where is your proof?" Peter said, aggravated. "Who the hell are you anyway, following me all around town?"

Olivia placed a hand on Walter's shoulder to try and get him back into the safety of the house, but then the man shook his head and withdrew an odd looking black gun from beneath his jacket. "I was really hoping I didn't need to threaten anyone, but you leave me no choice." The man did not aim the weapon at Peter, but rather he aimed it squarely at Walter. "I don't want to hurt him."

"You son of a bitch," Peter spat. "Do you honestly think I would ever help you? Hurt him, and I never will. You have no leverage here."

"Help me, and I won't have to hurt him," the man replied, widely grinning.

Peter attempted to move between the man and his father, but the man shouted, "Don't move!" He clicked something in place on the gun. "Or he dies!"

"How do I know you wouldn't kill him anyway?" Peter said, slowly taking a step forward.

"Get back!" the man shouted.

Olivia anxiously watched as Peter not only stepped in the line of fire but also started walking toward the man. "Peter, stop! What are you doing?"

"Olivia, get him out of here. I'll be fine."

Walter was again shaking like an earthquake was under his feet. He fearfully grabbed a hold of Olivia's arm and pleaded with her, "Olivia, please, do something!" But there was little she could do.

"You'll be fine," the man repeated Peter's words sardonically. "I have a gun pointed at your father, and you don't care?"

"I don't care because you don't have a gun pointed at my father, you have it pointed at me. Now, if you were telling the truth," Peter said, his eyes flashing angrily, stepping even closer to the man, "would you really point a gun at the only person who can save our doomed worlds?"

"I'm not lying! You have to come with me!" The man once so calm and composed was cracking. "Don't you care that your decision will cost us our lives?"

Peter was now within arm's reach of the man's gun. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't care!" The next second, Peter reached for the gun, twisting the man's arm to make him lose his grip. At the same time, Olivia pushed Walter safely into the house as Astrid pulled him inside, slamming the door closed after. Olivia drew her gun, aiming for the man in the suit, but couldn't get a clean shot.

"You don't know what you're doing!" the man screeched through clenched teeth.

Grappling with the man, Peter said, "I think I know exactly what I'm doing!" He had a firm grip on the gun but couldn't completely rip it away from the man's grasp.

Then the man said, "No, you don't!" and kicked Peter in the leg, crushing his knee, which caused him to fall to the ground long enough for the man to get the upper hand. "You were never a threat," the man said to Peter. "But she always has been." This time he had a clean shot—at Olivia.

"Put the gun down!" Olivia yelled, still holding her position, her gun aimed at the man's head.

The man grinned. "Long before you even pull the trigger, I can kill you, girl." He again clicked something into place with his left hand as his right index finger began to squeeze the trigger.

He had no time. No time for second thoughts, no time for regrets, no time for indecision. The instant he heard the word _kill_, Peter acted solely by instinct, no need for bulky instructions from his brain—he simply acted. Despite the pain in his knee, Peter sprang to his feet between the man and Olivia at just the right moment to save her from certain death. The gun fired invisible shock waves that hit Peter in the chest, flinging him backward.

The man holding the gun stood in sheer horror as Peter fell to the ground, long enough for Olivia to fire five rounds that hit him twice in the head and the rest into his chest as she sprang forward. The man fell to the ground, motionless. Once the threat was nullified, Astrid lost her grip on Walter's arm as he bolted out of the house, running to the side of his son who lie flat on his back, gasping for air.

Olivia was there first, quickly ripping open his jacket to find the whole right side of his shirt a dark, crimson red. She froze, shock and fear gripping her from seeing so much blood. She had to force herself to peal the soaken shirt away from his skin to get a better look at the wound.

She reeled backward at the sight. There was a gaping hole in his lower right shoulder that was unlike any gunshot wound she had ever seen before. It was jagged on the edges as though whatever had pierced the skin ripped it open like the claws of a lion rather than a smooth, aerodynamic bullet. The wound was twice the size any conventional weapon could inflict.

She quickly removed her own black jacket and crumpled it together, pressing it hard against the wound as Peter screamed out in agony. Walter fell at Peter's side, clutching his face.

"Son, Peter! You're going to be okay! You'll be okay!" he said frantically.

Again Peter felt as though the alcohol in his system was kicking in because the whole world around him seemed to be spinning out of control. The pain was intense, draining any and all thought from his mind. He tried to take a breath but only coughed up a half-pint of blood instead.

"Oh, God!" Walter cried helplessly at the sight of Peter's warm blood staining his hands.

But Peter could hear very little and he knew he had to say what he needed to say quickly. With the last of his strength, he reached his left hand up to touch his father's tear-soaked face. "Walter, I'm sorry. You're not…the same man—" He saw Walter's mouth move as though he were saying something, but Peter couldn't hear his words. "Walter, I—I forgive you."

The whole world seemed to flicker and dim. Peter blinked and squeezed his eyes tightly shut to make them focus. He could feel the pounding of his heart in every inch of his body.

Next, he turned his head to Olivia, who still desperately pressed her jacket against the wound to stop or at least slow the bleeding. Although his eyes were clouded with the pending darkness, he could clearly see her green eyes glazing over with unshed tears. Even in emotional distress, she was so beautiful.

"Olivia… I—I'm glad…you're safe."

There was no holding back the tears now, for any of them. Peter could feel the familiar sting in his eyes as he looked up at Olivia, her own tears falling on him like a cool rain. She, too, seemed to be saying something, but he was beyond the reach of her words. He felt the pressure leave his chest. Olivia's hand on him felt so warm, hot even. It was such a comforting feeling that took away the pain and seemed to rock him to sleep, gently pulling a warm blanket of darkness over him. He felt so tired. There was nothing more he could do to keep his eyes open any longer. _At least she's the last…_

Time slipped from his fingers and _he was gone_.

**Part 8: Resolution**

It was like floating on water, or maybe slipping beneath the surface until all feeling, all pain was gone. All physical sensation—everything but the heat that still clung to him as though keeping him from falling too far—was numb. It was that warmth that kept his heart beating, kept his mind and body restfully asleep until he was ready to come back to life.

Still partially submerged under the waves sloshing over him in his head, Peter began to feel something warm squeezing his hand. The emptiness around him began to open up as soft beeping sounds and a sudden gasp reached his ears.

"Olivia, Olivia!" said a familiar voice. "I believe he's coming back to us."

At the sound of the voice, Peter fought against the weight holding his eyes fast. Slowly managing to open them, light flooded over him and triggered a sharp pain in his head. Even through the pounding pain, he forced his eyes to focus on his surroundings.

"Welcome back, son," Walter said with newfound tears of joy in his eyes as he squeezed Peter's hand again.

Next to him was another familiar face. Olivia, her hair hanging down low over her shoulders, smiled softly as she placed a warm hand on Peter's arm. Although she said nothing, her touch said volumes.

Peter tried to take a breath to speak but found that only a broken voice, weak, escaped from his lips, "Where…where am I? What happened?"

Walter spoke quickly, eager to fill in the gaps in Peter's memory. "You're in the hospital, son. We nearly lost you. So nearly…" Walter faltered briefly but then his eyes flared brightly, speaking quickly. "Olivia saved your life, Peter."

Unable to fully understand, Peter scowled as his dim eyes peered up at Olivia on his right side. "Olivia?"

"You were losing far too much blood. We needed to stop the bleeding…but there was nothing we could do," Olivia answered, swallowing hard as though remembering those moments was very emotionally straining. "I put a hand on the wound and before my eyes, it—my hand—turned to flame, scorching your skin…"

"It was a crude form of cauterization but it worked nonetheless," Walter added, completely okay with the fact that Olivia's hand spontaneously caught fire. It wasn't anything out of the ordinary, apparently. "You will most likely carry the mark of her hand for some time to come, son, but it will heal eventually."

Olivia's ability must have flared to life in that moment to save his. She was, after all, able to conjure up flames by merely thinking of it as a child. It seemed so fantastical, Peter couldn't believe it and yet he knew it was very possible. He never doubted Olivia's potential.

"How long…have I…?" Peter asked.

"You were in a coma for nearly a month," Walter said, his eyes growing increasingly distant. "You developed an unknown form of sepsis from the shooter's weapon after Olivia sealed the wound closed. There was no way for us to know there were toxins circulating through your bloodstream until it was too late. You went through severe septic shock, you broke out into a terrible fever, your heart and respiratory rate skyrocketed, your kidneys began to fail, leading way to cardiac arrest..." Walter, lost in the swarm of memories, stood silently, unable to continue for several moments. Then, swallowing hard, he said, "They said you were dead, Peter. For three minutes and fourteen seconds. That's how long your heart had stopped beating…"

"Walter," Olivia called his name to break his fixation on all the _what if_'s. It seemed as though Walter had been swallowed by this obsessive play-back of the past more than once. "None of that matters now."

Walter tried on a smile as he looked up to Olivia. "Yes. Yes, you're right." But the smile faded away a second later when he returned his gaze back to his son. "Peter, you are going to have to make a difficult decision, where you belong." Walter spoke as though his words were as daggers, stabbing his own heart. "If you wish to cross over to the Other Side, I will not hold you back…"

"Hav—" Peter's voice cracked. "Haven't I…already made my decision?" He looked up at Walter with insistent eyes.

Walter simply responded with a soft smile of relief. "Yes, I suppose you have," he said softly, tears slipping from his eyes. He gently stroked the side of Peter's face like a father tucking in his son at night. "Thank you, son. You'd better get some rest." He took a step away from Peter's bedside, grabbing his light brown jacket. "I'll go back to the lab and whip up some of your favorite custard to bring you."

"Walter… I hate—" Peter spoke before realizing that every time Walter said something like this, it was because he was remembering the other Peter—_his Peter_. He suddenly regretted saying anything at all.

"Oh… That's right. You've said that before…"

"Circus peanuts," Peter said, thinking fast. "I'd love a…bag of circus peanuts, the or-orange ones." He could never fit into someone else's shoes, but Peter could allow his father to get to know him better; _his_ likes and dislikes, _everything_.

"You like circus peanuts, too?" Walter repeated, smiling. "I love circus peanuts."

Peter grinned. "…_banana_ peanuts."

"Yes, it's—so curious," Walter said with sudden clarity, and the freedom it gave him melted away the dark sadness eating away at his heart. Looking back to Olivia, Walter added, "Let's go, Olivia. Peter needs his rest. And I need to go shopping!" With his coat in his hand, Walter bounced happily out of the hospital room, the door swinging closed.

"I'd better get going," Olivia said at last. "Walter might take a wrong turn down the hall and end up—"

"—Olivia, wait." Peter grabbed a hold of her hand.

Gasping slightly, Olivia looked down at Peter. There was a certain strength in his grasp.

"Thank you. I-I don't know…how you did what you did but… thank you," he said, smiling. His eyes were beaming, released from their inner darkness. Olivia could see the promise of hope glisten in his bright eyes.

Shaking her head, Olivia returned his gleaming smile, although there was a slight hint of sorrow in her words. "It should be me, thanking you, Peter. You wouldn't be here if you hadn't—"

"—and where would you be?" Peter interrupted, his voice somehow finding the strength to sound clearly adamant.

She knew very well where she'd be, but still it did little to make her feel better, or convince herself otherwise that Peter nearly died because of her. She wanted to say more, to argue or _something_, but she was at a loss for words. As seconds whisked by in silence, her hand slipped out of Peter's grasp and found its way to the tightly bandaged wound on his chest.

Neither of them said a word but simply let time trickle past, finding comfort in each other's presence. At the touch of her hand, her warmth spreading throughout his entire body, Peter suddenly felt the heaviness weigh over his eyes again. It only took a few moments for him to lose sight of everything as he slipped into a peaceful sleep.

A little over three minutes passed before Olivia reclaimed her hand from Peter's chest. Again she thought of Walter getting lost in the halls of the hospital. She leaned over Peter one more time and gently kissed him on the forehead.

"Sweet dreams," she said with a smile as she stroked the side of his scruffy face with a soft hand, warm and confident.

Picking up her coat from the chair on the right side of Peter's hospital bed, she turned and walked out of the room.


End file.
